


Colors Speak Louder Than Words

by FernDaphnia



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDaphnia/pseuds/FernDaphnia
Summary: Richie knows how this works, knows what the sudden flood of color into his vision means. He just never expected it to happen the moment he stepped on stage at one of his shows.Soulmate fic for the It Fandom Prompt Week on tumblr. Starts a few weeks before Chapter 2.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 103





	Colors Speak Louder Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for It Fandom Prompt Week on tumblr. You can check out my new It and Reddie-centric tumblr [here](https://ferndaphnia.tumblr.com/) :)

He’s still questioning why he’s here, sitting in the balcony of a small theatre in Brooklyn besides two of his colleagues that he doesn’t even like on a Friday night. Stand-up comedy is not Eddie’s idea of a good time but the chance to get out of his apartment for an evening, for free, no less, was too good to pass up, even if it came via one of the eternal frat boys that he worked with.

It’s only when the lights dim and thunderous applause starts up around him that he resigns himself to the fact he can no longer be on his phone. He finally looks up at the stage as a man walks on and instantly feels the moment his whole life changes.

He looks around somewhat frantically, expecting to see someone else doing similarly, but everyone is locked on the show. He notices in passing that the theatre is oddly silent except for an odd whoop from down in the stalls from someone he can only assume is going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.

He leans forward to try and gauge the expressions of the group of women sitting in front of him - surely it has to be someone in the rows in front of him, one of the many backs-of-heads that he must have passingly looked at - but a dirty look from one of them quickly sends him back into his seat. 

A man further along his row coughs loudly, interrupting the still stilted feeling in the audience and he wonders just how long a one and a half hour set can feel. Judging by how few of the jokes seem to be landing, _very long_ is the answer. 

“You didn’t notice anyone around us acting…weird?” he asks his companions when the lights finally come back on and they're leaving the theatre, giving one last glance back at where they were sitting for any stragglers who look as shell-shocked as he feels. There’s no-one.

“Other than you?” They both laugh, “Just you and Trashmouth, man. Can’t believe he bombed so hard tonight!”

Eddie doesn’t bother to join in their laughter, feeling oddly defensive at the joy they seem to be taking in the guy’s failure. He waves them off when they ask if he’s coming for a beer and instead pulls out his phone and quickly types ‘do you have to lock eyes with your soulmate to see colors?’ into Google. The results are inconclusive.

-

Richie knows how this works, knows what the sudden flood of color into his vision means. He’s been waiting for it since he was eighteen, he just never expected it to happen the moment he stepped on stage at one of his shows.

He’s looking out into the audience, he thinks he was looking at the balcony when it happened, but the lights are too bright to make out any discernible features on anyone sitting within it, let alone whether anyone feels as off-balance as he now does.

He hates the flicker of hope that accompanies the colors, the fleeting belief that it can’t be so wrong - _he_ can’t be wrong - if there’s someone out there in the audience that this weird biological receptor has singled out.

He blinks a few times, eyes adjusting to the onslaught of vibrancy, and the audience comes back into focus, as does the fact that he’s standing on a stage doing fuck all in front of a few thousand people.

“So, uh, anyone else having a really weird day?” he finally asks but his only response is an awkward silence followed by a few whoops from an obviously drunk patron in the first few rows.

He stumbles through the opening of his first joke and by the time he has the hope has all but disappeared. Why would anyone, any man, listening to this bullshit about an ex-girlfriend and being caught literally with his pants down, conclude that Richie was their soulmate. They’re more likely to think it was the man whose cough echoed through the auditorium a few moments ago.

He stumbles through the rest of his set and tries not to let the disappointment settle any further when it’s only the usual crowd at the stage door.

It’s the strangest day he’s had until Mike Hanlon calls him back to Derry less than a month later.

-

It’s not surprise that the conversation in the Jade of the Orient eventually turns to their relationship statuses once their food is served and the initial plesantaries are out of the way, Ben and Beverly having just connected in the parking lot outside.

“So, wait, Eddie, you got married?” Richie asks, clearly setting up a joke.

“Uh-“ Eddie looks down at the ring on his left hand with visible discomfort, “separated. Just haven’t got round to taking it off yet.”

“Shit, that sucks. Sorry, man.”

Eddie shakes his head, dismissing the apology. “She wasn’t my soulmate. That’s actually why we separated, I finally saw colors last month.”

“That’s great, Eddie,” Beverly leans across the table to squeeze his arm as Mike says, “Congrats, man.” 

“So what’s she like?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, it was the weirdest fucking thing. I was at one of your shows.”

A wash of adrenaline courses through Richie. It can’t have been, _surely_?

“You a fan, Eddie?” Ben asks good naturedly.

Eddie frowns, “Some asshole I worked with dragged me along- that’s not the point!”

Richie stands up suddenly, the others all turning to look at him in question. “I uh-“ a wretch stops him, he swallows it back down, “I’ll be right back.” He silently thanks Mike for booking the private room right next to the bathroom.

-

There’s a knock at the door to the restroom, despite it being public, and the door opens cautiously before Eddie steps inside.

“What the fuck happened?” Eddie hangs back, scrunching his nose up at the faint smell of vomit.

Richie doesn’t open his eyes, tries not to move from where he is sat against the cubicle wall, head tilted upwards as if that will somehow keep the nausea down, “What does it look like, Dr K? You’re losing your touch.”

“I know you were sick, asshole. I meant why? You were fine earlier.”

Richie cracks one eye open, “Fuck if I know, man. That yellow curry tasted kind of weird though.”

Eddie frowns, “I ate like half of that and I’m-“ He stops short, rethinking through what Richie had just said. Not the poor excuse, Eddie knows food poisoning and knows that twenty minutes after eating is far too soon for symptoms to start manifesting, but rather what he blamed it on. The curry. “The _yellow_ curry,” he finishes his thoughts aloud. "Wait, you got your sight? When the fuck did that happen? And why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

Richie gives a dry, humourless chuckle and wishes he could find any of this funny. Cosmically, perhaps but it sure as hell wasn’t getting added as a story in his set any time soon. “Funny story, so I’m at one of my shows and the moment I step out on stage and look out at my adoring public it’s wham, bam, thank you mam and I can suddenly see. It was one hell of a way to fuck up my set.”

Eddie stands with his hands on his hips, jaw clenched, “But this was years ago, right?”

“Nope, around three weeks or so, give or take.”

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters, pacing outside of the stalls.

Richie gives him a few moments, remembering enough about what he’s like when he’s stressed to know that he needs time to process, but eventually has to ask, “so are we going to talk about us being-“

They both jump at the sound of all four taps turning on simultaneously and Richie struggles to his feet with Eddie’s help.

“What the fuck?”

They walk cautiously over to the sinks but stop in their tracks when the taps start to grow in length, stretching out from their place above the sinks, steam coming off them from the boiling water. 

Richie stares wide-eyed as the taps stretch slowly towards them, “I am seriously tripping balls, man, the fucking taps look like they’re moving.” He laughs uncomfortably but stops abruptly when Eddie doesn’t reply. He turns and realises he’s staring in horror at the same taps. “Eds?”

“I can see it too.” 

They both step back, Richie holding onto Eddie’s jacket sleeve to keep himself steady. A sudden bubbling sound comes from behind them and they whip around to see a bubbling black sludge overfill from the toilet bowl, crawling towards both them and the taps.

“What do we do? What the fuck do we do?!” Eddie shouts hysterically, grasping onto the side of Richie’s shirt, jumping again when a scream and sudden burst of shouting filters in from outside, their table being the only one close enough for them to hear.

“The door! C’mon,” he doesn’t know what they’ll be running out into but the taps and the sludge seem to be pushing them in that direction, a clear path being left by whatever force is controlling them.

They get to the door which opens with ease, the bottom outer corner skimping the sludge as it does, beginning to burn upon contact. He pulls Eddie back out into the restaurant and quickly glances back only to find the restrooms empty, all the damage from just seconds ago gone and no trace of the sludge or scalding water in its wake.

“No! No, no, no!” Eddie bumps into him from behind and he turns to ask what’s wrong only to catch a glimpse of the _fortune cookie with bat wings_ that is flying in their direction. 

Richie really hopes they survive long enough to finish their earlier conversation.


End file.
